


The Corner Of The Bar

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Racial slurs, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15141692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: In which he sits back down where he belongs.





	The Corner Of The Bar

**Author's Note:**

> [H/D Wireless Fest 2018](http://hd-wireless.tumblr.com) Prompt:#69: Yoü and I by Lady Gaga (Smut with a happy ending).
> 
> All the kudos to the mods.
> 
> SPaGed and beta-ed by Spf. Ta ever so.

The Marauders’ Rest was, as pubs go, perfectly normal. If you ignored the two or three berobed drinkers who gawked reverently at the landlord as they ordered drinks from the dustiest of bottles on the top shelf, bottles that puffed little clouds of smoke when poured. If you ignored the one time a St. George's Cross clad skinhead demanded a pint of Stella and to know why there was a ‘Paki poof’ behind the bar in  _his_ country, then stormed back through the door ten minutes later – after being not-so-gently ejected – claiming a flock of bats had attacked him in broad daylight while ‘some ginger lezza’ just stood by and laughed. If you ignored the painting above the pool table of cocksure twenty-somethings with knowing eyes and mischievous smirks that followed you around the room, that you'd solemnly swear changed into a woodland scene replete with gambolling creatures one a month. If you ignored all of that, The Marauders’ Rest was, as pubs go, perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Harry stood behind the bar, wiping down the countertop absentmindedly. It didn't need done, no matter how many drinks sloshed, dribbled or spilled across the polished walnut top it never got sticky – Rosmerta could give Filius a run for his galleons when it came to charmwork – but it gave him something to keep his hands busy. The pub was quiet, even for a Thursday: a booth of beleaguered Muggle teachers, bemoaning the introduction of  _yet another_ upcoming standardised testing regime, shared a couple of bottles of the second-cheapest Malbec; a ruddy-faced older man downed the last dregs of his still slightly-smoking drink before he pulled a deep purple robe over his pinstripe-waistcoat-and-Hawaiian-shorts combination and headed for the door. As he reached for the door, it pushed open, he scuttled a few steps back, gave the newcomer a wider than necessary berth before disappearing into deepest darkest Islington with a whispered expletive,  _Godric and Merlin both._

The newcomer's heels clacked across the oak floorboards coming to a stop at the bar. Harry looked up from his unnecessary scrubbing; his usual  _‘What can I get you?’_ dissipated into a particularly inarticulate gurgle. He reached blindly behind himself, grabbing the nearest dusty bottle and poured a shot; the Ogden's billowed briefly as hit the glass. He downed the shot, then filled another glass pushing it across the bar.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

He looked good, the wanker. Platinum blond hair artfully tousled around his face, a crisp white shirt peeked out from his charcoal blazer, leather trousers that might as well have been painted on and, fuck, the Louboutins. Harry's cock plumped at the memory of being bent over the sofa upstairs in his tiny flat, Draco in nothing but those damn heels and a bold slash of Ruby Woo across his lips. He itched to move, but the bartop hid his crotch and he wouldn't,  _he couldn't_ , give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing he could still do that with nothing more than his mere presence.

“It's been…” Malfoy began, before trailing off.

”Yeah.” Harry agreed, no compassion in his voice, “It's been.”

Malfoy picked up the whisky and downed it in one, a shake of his head as the burn spread down his throat. He tapped the rim of the glass and Harry obligingly refilled it. Malfoy took a sip. “It's been a while since I…”

“Left,” Harry finished curtly for him. “Two years since  _you_   _left_.”

“Yes, since I left.” He took another sip and, with a slight toss of his head, flicked his hair out of his eyes. “It’s different this time,” he held Harry’s gaze, “this time I’m not leaving.” He perched himself of the edge of his once-usual barstool, hooking his right heel over the rung. “I fucked up.”

“In more ways than one,” Harry snorted and turned to wipe the countertop under the optics. He rubbed away a trio of non-existent stains before looking back over his shoulder, “It's been two years. Who's to say I haven't moved on?”

“You haven’t,” Malfoy smirked, running his long, pale index finger around the rim of his tumbler. “Still can't hide those feelings, Potter.”

“You always did well enough for the both of us, when it came to that,” Harry spat.

'Touché,” Maloy slumped slightly on his stool, “although it seems two years is my limit for keeping that particular fiction up.”

Harry threw his rag in the small sink as he back around, “Fuck you,” he hissed, low enough that his paying punters wouldn't hear.

“If you insist,” Malfoy’s smirk intensified, “I’m not adverse as to who fucks who.” He swirled the amber nectar around his glass, “I guess it’s true when they say, a bottom can change his spots.”

Harry scowled, he’d nothing to say but another trite  _fuck you_ so kept quiet; his scowl faced off against Malfoy’s smirk. The smirk broke first.

“Fine then,” Malfoy drained his glass and stood up.  _So_   _much for_   _not leaving again._  He got two steps from the bar before he heard it, almost a growl.

“Sit back down where you belong.” It stopped Malfoy in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around for a minute, maybe two, maybe ten. When he  _eventually_ did, Harry let out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding in a long, slow exhale. Malfoy stared, Harry could feel the look boring into him, eventually he must’ve found what he was looking for; the as good as patented Malfoy smirk melted into something warmer – what Harry knew was his I-got-what-I-wanted smile of self-satisfaction,  _Dammit! –_ and he downright sauntered for all of the two paces to back the bar, then slipped up onto his stool.

Manners would have it that Harry didn’t stare at the bulge in Malfoy’s trousers that clearly matched his own.

Manners could fuck right off.

At the wiggle of Harry’s fingers the Muggle teachers all suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be; the magic floating in the air was probably strong enough for them all to see but it didn’t slow them down as they pulled on coats and muttered their ‘ _same time next weekses’._ A Colloportus followed them to the door, it had barely snicked in place by the time Harry was around the bar and between Malfoy’s knees.

“Two years, you absolute, complete and utter tosser,” Harry breathed just inches from Malfoy’s lips. He felt a leg slither up and hook around his waist, he tugged the other up to join it before closing the last few inches between them. He tasted of whisky and smoke and magic and  _Draco_. The crossed ankles in the small of his back pulled him forward, held them tight; cocks, chests and tongues pushing against each other, teeth nibbling at lips, fighting for dominance.

“Wanker, through and through,” Draco murmured in agreement into Harry’s neck as he trailed sloppy kisses down his jawline, nipping through the light stubble. “Proper arsehole.”

Harry’s hands glided up the outside of Draco’s leather-clad thighs, under his shirt tails and blazer, ‘til they reached bare skin. With a tug, a slide, and jolt of surprise, Draco’s arse scootched forward, arms outstretched among the bartop for support; Harry’s thigh raised and screaming to be ridden. Draco had no doubt he could come in his far-too-expensive trousers right now, dry-humping his ex’s –  _ex’s‽_ – leg like an crup in heat. Before he could decide if it would be worth it and how long it would take him to get it up again –  _because with Potter it’s never an ‘if’, it’s always a ‘when’_ – the pressure was gone and Harry had dropped to his knees, Draco’s ankles slung casually over his shoulders.

Harry nuzzled the soft leather where thigh met crotch while his fingers traced nonsensical patterns above Draco’s waistband, a pinkie only just sliding underneath; he looked up, green eyes through a mess of brown waves, and licked his lips.

“Ohfuckyes.”

Harry smirked as he slowly pushed the button at the top of Draco’s fly through its hole, he flicked his tongue over the newly exposed patch of pale skin until above him Draco grumbled, “Just bloody Banish them.”

“Not fuckin’ likely,” Harry huffed, “might miss and get the shoes.”

“And the shoes stay on?” Draco asked, although he already knew the answer, it’s why he’d put that pair on in the first place – and not bothered with pants, besides even the tightest of briefs would’ve ruined the line of the leather.

“Shoes stay on,” Harry confirmed, pulling the zip and freeing Draco’s cock. The tingle of a prophylaxis charm – always a bit more powerful when Harry cast it – swept over the two of them, the prickle not even fully dissipated before Harry had his lips around Draco’s cock, his tongue swirled around the slit.

They fitted together perfectly, they always had: Draco’s fingers twisted solidly in Harry’s hair; Harry squeezing Draco tight around his hilt before Draco could find the words to say he was close; and then, when the rutting of Draco’s hips crescendoed, Harry would let go, sinking his nose into the wiry golden curls, swallowing deep, milking every last drop. This time it was no different.

Harry wiped his mouth across the back of his hand as he stood up. Draco looked positively debauched; his hair gone from artfully tousled to most-definitively post-coitally dishevelled, turning a darker gold around the hairline where the sweat had prickled – how it had ended up like that when his hands had been wound in Harry’s own hair, would likely remain a mystery. His lips flushed red, little indentations still clear from where he’d bit his bottom lip trying to restrain his gasps as he came; his ruddy cock lay damp and sticky, already starting to plump again.

And if Draco looked like that, Harry was under no illusion he looked far worse. 

Harry wasted no time, arms around Draco’s waist he hoisted him up. Draco’s arms twisted around Harry’s neck, legs around his waist, trapping his still spit-slick cock tight against Harry’s belly. For a second Harry considered just slamming against the wall, to have Draco ride him like they had the first time,  _the only time,_ he’d taken him to Number 12; Draco scrabbling for a dusty wall sconce just to have something to hold onto as Harry ploughed home, Walburga’s screeching from down the hall be damned. Instead, he passed the booths into the games alcove and dropped him on the pool table, with a little less finesse than the situation called for.

“Strip,” Draco demanded, his unceremonious landing not even knocking a breath from him. Harry complied immediately, pulling his t-shirt over his head, knocking his glasses askew in the process. As he worked on his belt, Draco got up from the table, and shook his wand free from its hippocampus leather arm holster. He reached up to straighten Harry’s glasses and nonchalantly turned the two of them around until Harry’s naked arse was pressed up against the edge of the pool table; with a gentle push to the chest, Harry sat down. Draco’s trousers vanished with a flick of Hawthorn, “I’m a better aim,” he explained before Harry could complain; he shrugged his shirt and blazer off, dropping them at his feet atop of Harry’s own pile of clothes.

Between his natural height advantage and the five inches added by the Louboutins Draco positively towered over Harry’s seated form, if he tilted his head just slightly Harry could see their reflection in the mirror that covered the entirety of the wall in the darker alcove. Luna had insisted on putting the mirror up, saying it opened the space and would drive out the Humdingers, Blithering and otherwise; Ginny argued it would have drunks walking into it within the first half hour and doused it liberally in repelling charms that had the added advantage of keeping the reflections sparklingly sharp; Harry would have to thank them both later, but right now, with those heels making that arse look like that, thank you cards for his friends would have to wait.

In true Harry fashion, he’d been anything but subtle staring at their reflections; Draco’s pointed cough and “Do you need me for this?” as he nodded at Harry’s hand wrapped around his own cock, brought him back. Harry gave another two harsh tugs as he stared directly at Draco before he splayed his knees wide.

“Magic and fingers,” he said canting his hips, “first.”

The  _‘Been a while, Potter?’_ had left his mouth before his brain kicked into gear and from the thin hard line of Harry’s lips it was hard to think of any other four words that could have ruined the mood quite so quickly. “It’s okay,” Draco said, backtracking, “I had other plans for this.” He ran his hand down Harry’s left leg, straightening it out and pecking a brief kiss on his ankle bone before draping it across his own left shoulder. He quirked an eyebrow at Harry, who stared back impassively.

“Sorry,” the word sounded wrong coming from Draco; that it sounded so genuine, pulled at Harry’s heartstrings and gave him an uncomfortable ache deep in his belly.

“Happy now?” Harry snapped as he leaned back on his elbows.

Draco shook his head, “No.”

“You got off, isn’t that what you wanted?” Harry’s jaw was set firm, and – despite being sprawled naked over a pool table – he cut an intimidating figure.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Draco dropped Harry’s leg to the table and turned away, “this isn’t just sex.” Behind him, he heard Harry snort, “Never was, was it?” Harry remained silent, but Draco would swear he could hear the crackle of magic and grinding of teeth that preceded the classic Potter explosion. He bent down to pick up his shirt, shook it once to get the worst of the creases out and slipped it on. “Wasn’t for me,” he said, pushing a button though its hole, the two below quickly followed.

Three buttons would do. He bent down to pick up his blazer and tried to focus on where he’d Banished his trousers to. If the worst came to it, he could probably Transfigure his blazer into as passable pair of chinos that would get him home without too much fuss, but it was McQueen and had cost-

“Took you long enough.”

Draco froze. In front of him the reflection of a positively chipper Potter grinned back at him.

“Feelings are the fuckin’ worst,” the reflection continued, “getting in the way of good, honest, shagging. Needing to be,” the reflection waved its hand dismissively, “dealt with.”

“The worst,” Draco agreed. “But sometimes,” he turned around.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, “but sometimes.” He sat up and held out hand to Draco. Instead of pulling himself to his feet he pulled Draco closer, til his thighs brushed the edge of the table. “Feelings can be-”

“-Scary.”

“I was gonna say good,” Harry said.

“Really?”

Harry nodded solemnly, “Really.” Then he leant forward and whispered as conspiritorally as a den of thieves, “And so fuckin’ hot.”

Draco regarded him for a moment; tried desperately to ignore the gentle circles Harry’s thumb drew on the heel of his thumb, the burgeoning erections that the both of them were in no place to hide. “What do you want, Potter?” he eventually asked, wearily.

“Whatever you’ll give me,” Harry said, without a word of a lie. Draco let out a huff of disbelief, “I  _want_ everything, I’ll take whatever you’re offering.” Harry shuffled forward til they were crotch to crotch. “I’m not gonna lie, I want everything: sex and feelings and storming outs and making ups and early morning croissants and crups and families and all of that; I’ll take you, whatever you’ll give me.”

“You’re a capricious fucker.”

Harry shook his head, “Nah, I know what I want, wasn’t I clear?” he rested his hand on Draco’s hip, under his shirt. “What do you want, Draco?”

“For the last two years I thought I wanted nothing but you bent over that ancient brown sofa of yours, gagging for it. But now…” he trailed off.

Harry felt like all the air had been sucked from his world, he held still, “But now?” he finally asked.

He cracked a smile, “Sex and feelings and croissants, sounds perfect.” He leaned forward and kissed Harry, a kiss that promised sex and feelings and croissants and all the rigmarole that went along with it.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.
> 
> Also available in [tumblr flavour](http://postjentacular.tumblr.com/post/176708483012/hd-wireless-fic-claim-the-corner-of-the-bar); come say hai.


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